


if i'm butter then he's a hot knife

by th_esaurus



Category: The Hobbit (2012)
Genre: AU, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:04:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/th_esaurus/pseuds/th_esaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A happy sort of AU where nobody dies and everyone gets blowjobs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if i'm butter then he's a hot knife

The night was sweet, the crust of summer, just before the crisp browns of autumn took ahold of the world. The open windows let in the sounds of lazy merry-makers from the tavern, a contented bleating from the nearby Waymeet fields and a few good-natured domestic spats; the crackling fire inside Bag End played a constant chord through it all. 

It was the sort of night where one should abuse the pleasant warmth and seat oneself outside for a smoke and a good book, but Bilbo was not to be seen on his familiar garden perch. It was no real surprise for the gentlefolk of Hobbiton, though they tried to think on it little. 

His husband-King was visiting.

Bilbo packed his pipe, scattering flecks of tobacco on his collarbone for he was too content to raise his head from where it lay on Thorin's bare chest. He tended not to smoke indoors as it left the place a little acrid once the headiness had faded, and it yellowed his books besides, but he was pleased, and this was how he showed it. He and Thorin passed the one pipe between them for a while, not much speaking except in indiscriminate murmurs that seemed to make sense to each other. Thorin could grasp the whole rough crop of the hobbit's curls in one hand, but he was gentler than that; for now. For now.

Thorin came to the Shire only when the politics of his people were sound, and their economy sturdy, and the weather ripe, and the ponies well-fed, and the moon unfettered by storm or cloud. Suffice to say, he did not come often, and even then was always unannounced. He had no need of a guard but liked to travel with companions, after such adventures as many would never care to see in middle-age; but once they crossed the bridge into Hobbiton, such company became tiresome and was easily dismissed to the inns or further into the countryside, to seek whatever green and fertile fortune they might think to hunt for there.

Thorin spent his visits uninterrupted in Bilbo's abode. Usually a stretch of four or more days, they went barely clothed, and fucked, and ate, and told stories, and fucked again, and between each Bilbo would sigh deeply as though he could only truly unburden the weight of all things from his chest in Thorin's thick arms.

They had wed bloodied and hasty after the battle for Erebor, and the hobbit had tasted the salty mingle of their blood on his lips as he sealed their vow. Thorin ignored all protest, from his fellow dwarves and from Bilbo himself, and had dragged Bilbo inside the desecrated, once-grand hall under the mountain, and drove Orcrist between the cracks in the stone, and brought Bilbo down to his knees, their hands clasped painfully about the hilt, and there they had made their vows to one another. Balin witnessed them, prompted Bilbo as he did not know the words. Thorin's voice had been fierce and his brow dripped blood upon his cheeks and mouth, and he spoke of love and honour and duty, all things that a hobbit claims to know but could scarcely recognise from the comfort of their own cosy holes.

Bilbo felt he knew, a little part, of what Thorin meant by those ancient words.

"You are bound now," Balin said, at the end of it, and Thorin marched back to the broken ranks of his men and set about commanding the restoration of his kingdom, and kept Bilbo close at his side all the while.

Some years later, and the world's pace had slowed again for Bilbo Baggins. He returned to the Shire with a chest of gold and a silver band on his ring finger that he would – haughtily, he was accused – refuse to discuss with his kin. 

Thorin often promised Bilbo a proper wedding, when they were like this, bare and wrapped around each other, his deep voice a rumble in Bilbo's ears and ribcage. "We should have to marry in the Shire, and Hobbit weddings are not particularly quiet affairs," Bilbo said, passing up the pipe, pleased to let their fingers brush. "And the young girls would try putting flowers in my hair and I shall have none of that."

Thorin smiled and puffed and lowered his eyes in amusement. It was quite a grand sight, and that's saying much for a hobbit who has gone off adventuring.

"Think it's funny, hmm?"

Thorin simply echoed his murmur noncommittally, and then put distraction and talk aside, and turned to take Bilbo's face in his hands. Bilbo had always been fond of warm, familiar spaces, and found himself at home with every crag and crevice on Thorin's body. Thorin's palms seemed to swallow him whole. 

"Kiss me," Bilbo ordered boldly. 

"I am your King," Thorin muttered against his mouth.

"You are not _my_ king," Bilbo said, clambering into his lap. "Just _a_ king."

Thorin had first kissed him to prove that Bilbo was alive and well and whole; he had second kissed him to stake a claim; he had third kissed him out of some mad possessive need. It took Bilbo a good many of those kisses to believe that none of it had any agenda. But they could kiss now, and languidly, and at length, and Bilbo second-guessed not a single one of them.

Thorin's beard was long enough not to be rough; still, his teeth could leave marks.

They were so mismatched; tall each for their respective races but Bilbo still trailing a good seven inches behind even an ignoble dwarf; one fair and rounded and almost clumsy with fondness while his partner lay out thick and strong like a fallen oak. Bilbo liked that Thorin was strong enough to grab him, to hoist him, though he acquiesced to the hobbit's whim too, let Bilbo dance his fingers all over, up and down his skin and inside his mouth, against his tongue, thumbs smoothing under his arms and in the crooks of his elbows. Bilbo liked to latch onto a patch of skin and suckle – a bare stretch of his shoulder, or a nipple if he were feeling bold – and it made Thorin clutch roughly at his hair and back, slapping there when he felt overwhelmed, kicking out a little under Bilbo's bemused ministrations like an untamed colt.

"And I always thought you so stoic," Bilbo chided. 

He earned himself a tender bite on the fat of his neck for that barb. 

A long time they spent naked and rolled up in each other like ages-old scripture. The sunset broke itself apart into starlight, and Bilbo put a halt to their play, smacked Thorin's hands from his hip, and padded about naked to fetch wood and light a fire. It made Bag End corncob yellow, but Thorin alone seemed to glow, the silver streaks in his hair changing golden through some trick of alchemy. 

When Bilbo came back to him, he was heavy with desire and already fisting his prick in fire-warmed fingers. He did not straddle Thorin's waist, but instead planted his knees either side of Thorin's shoulders, sat high up on his chest. Thorin could not help but knead his behind and it made the hobbit wriggle. 

They had made love and found their highest peaks twice already that eve, and Bilbo did not care one jot to stop now. He leant forward, hands and knees akimbo above Thorin's head and hair, and for a moment admired the way the dwarf's tresses feathered out like a hand stretched out in greeting, hard black against the wooden floor. Then he took his prick in hand and pressed the greedy tip of it to Thorin's lips.

"Halfling," Thorin growled, a warning.

"That I am," Bilbo agreed, and rolled his hips, and broke that warm seal, and pushed in. 

Bilbo had, himself, crawled under Thorin's bedroll and pressed faint kisses and the pad of his tongue to the dwarf king's cocktip when he had been only a prince, and the nights had been colder, and such companionship by necessity fleeting and harried. Thorin was wont to repay the favour with his palms, or he would slick the hobbit as best he could with spit and his fingers, and drive deep, and whisper the words of songs about home against the back of Bilbo's neck. He had never offered Bilbo his mouth. 

The hobbit could be an impatient one, some of the time. 

Thorin was quite still under him for a time, as he took to the feel of Bilbo's prick. His hands gripped themselves, but his knuckles brushed Bilbo's skin. The hobbit did not dare move for some time. It was as though he had found the perfect spot in the sun to lie and warm himself and bask, but he could not relax fully for fear of rainclouds; for fear of retribution. The king's eyes were closed, almost in thought, and Bilbo marveled at how much of him Thorin took, even at this first push. 

He waited for a spurn that never came. And then he thrust his hips as gently as he could manage. His cock was wet with spit when it came out from between Thorin's lips, and unfathomably warm when it pushed back in, and Bilbo could do nothing then but groan and rut and clasp his hands in the wide halo of Thorin's hair; he fucked the dwarf king's mouth with a selfish kind of abandon that made him awed and ashamed.

Bilbo thought he might sob when Thorin pulled him in with his hands and with a deep suck that hollowed his cheeks to the bone. The window was still flung wide. He clawed at his own mouth with his hand to stop the sound of it. 

And Thorin all but spat him out, and turned him to the floor, and pushed the hobbit's legs about his shoulders, and drank him in, wanton as a thirst-ridden beast, his tongue and lips and teeth all fighting for Bilbo's pleasure and Bilbo could not deny a single one of them, and he came hard in the mouth of the king with a broken sob he could not smother. 

Thorin seemed not quite to know what to expect. Half of it he swallowed. The rest trickled from the corner of his lips and beaded into his beard. He licked at it, his expression both sour and curious. It made him look extraordinarily young.

"There now," Bilbo said when he had quite regained his breath and his senses. "Did you like it?" Thorin sat crosslegged and brooding as Bilbo cleaned him up. 

"I would not do these things for anyone," he muttered.

"No," Bilbo admitted, and kissed him very soundly, and fumbled to toss a little more wood upon the neglected fire. "But you would do them for me."


End file.
